


postcards from far away

by Liu



Category: DCU, Marvel
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick Grayson finds Bruce Banner on the streets of Bludhaven, apparently on the run from someone important. Things progress in an unexpected way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	postcards from far away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gemenice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenice/gifts).



> This was a challenge from a friend, maybe a year ago... just forgot to post it. If you enjoy strange pairings as much as I do, have fun :)

Bludhaven is full of strange people: lazy, aggressive bums lounging on the streets, outright freaks with hair in all colors of the rainbow and weapons not-so-cleverly hidden under the waistbands of torn pants… and then people who just need a hand to help them get back on their feet.

When Dick first sees Bruce Banner, he places the weird, naked guy lying on the pavement into the first category: when Dick approaches, the guy jumps up and Dick immediately tenses, prepared for an attack.

But that never comes: the guy runs for it, and Dick shrugs and leaves, because there are still duties of a policeman he needs to fulfill, parking tickets to hand out and people to argue with about fees.

When he stumbles to his apartment in the evening, he spots a group of military people running over the streets, quiet efficiency remindful of a chase. That’s when Dick sees the weird naked guy again: he’s not naked anymore, and Dick can thank only his life with the world’s greatest detective for the ability to recognize the guy’s face underneath the stained baseball cap pulled down over his forehead. He’s wearing a baggy shirt that’s two sizes too big for him and worn-out jeans that only hold on his narrow hips thanks to a makeshift belt made out of a laundry cord. He’s bare-footed and favors his left side, leans against the walls in the dirty alley he’s dragging himself through. Dick watches from the shadows: the guy squeezes his eyes shut and leans against another wall behind trash cans, half-hiding from Dick’s view. His breathing comes in ragged pants and he’s clutching his left hip – there’s something haunted in his eyes that makes Dick step out of the concealing shadows and approach.

The guy seems startled again, ready to run, and Dick raises his hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture:

“Hey. Relax. Whoever’s chasing you? I’m not with them.”

The guy gives him a quick once-over, not so much checking out as assessing the possible threat Dick could pose. The mistrust in the guy’s eyes tells Dick that this person has been at this for far too long, that he has learned to not trust anyone, no matter how friendly they are.

But he has also exhausted all his resources, if he even had any to begin with: he seems worn-out, hurt, maybe malnourished or dehydrated (or both), and he doesn’t look like a criminal, so Dick shrugs and makes an offer.

“You look like you could use some sleep. And food,” he shrugs, and unlocks the back door of his apartment building, not looking back, just leaving the door open. Before he climbs the first flight of stairs, he hears shuffling steps in the doorway, and a quiet click of the door getting shut.

Dick continues his study of the man over a plate of mac and cheese. The guy more inhales than swallows the food, mutely admitting to Dick’s suspicion about a severe lack of resources. The way his eyes, haunted and wary, drag over possible escape routes from the room convinces Dick that the man’s a fugitive.

When Dick asks for a name, all he gets is a stare that speaks volumes about ‘I’d like to, but I don’t trust you’. 

He offers the guy a shower, and clothes that actually fit: well, more than the ones he’s wearing. While the water is running, Dick has to convince a pack of armed men who come banging on his door that he’s having his lover over, and that they need to leave because they have no right to mess with an honest policeman’s evening off: they grumble about it, but Dick has turned ‘charming and persuasive’ into a work of art, and their steps thunder down the stairs just as the guy they’re looking for peeks out of the bathroom door.

“Bruce,” he says, and Dick whips around, thinking that this guy might be somehow connected to something pertaining to Batman, and that bringing him here has been a bad idea after all.

“Bruce Banner,” he repeats, scratching at the back of his wet hair, and Dick blinks when he realizes that the guy is actually introducing himself. Whether the name is real or fake, it’s a remarkable coincidence, another Bruce, huh, Dick thinks and smiles.

“I’m Dick. Grayson,” he says, and if the name rings any bells in Bruce’s head, he doesn’t let on, just shrugs and smiles a little, a sad, sour quirk of his lips that makes Dick wonder whether the guy lost his real smile somewhere on the run.

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to repay your kindness, Mr. Grayson-“

“Dick.”

“Dick,” Bruce repeats, and something in Dick moves at the helpless way this man accepts the basic politeness of being allowed to use someone’s first name. Bruce obviously needs help, and Dick quickly re-classifies him into the category three before offering his hand and his sweatpants.

……………………………….

The first time Dick goes out for a patrol as Nightwing, on the same evening, he finds his apartment deserted, no signs of Bruce Banner ever having been within as much as twenty miles around the place. The dishes Bruce used have been washed and put away, the bathroom cleaned up, leaving not even one stray hair behind – the baggy clothes Dick found the guy in have disappeared as well.

Dick is tired, but something about this screams ‘wrong’, and later, he won’t remember what it was that made him change out of his costume and step out again, scouting the Bludhaven streets for an unknown fugitive: but he does, and he finds Bruce sleeping shallowly on the outskirts, curled up behind trash cans, covered with cardboard. 

Dick already expects the jerk as Bruce awakens, startled and not as disoriented as someone exhausted should be. It speaks about having to spring into action immediately after waking more than once, more than a dozen times, and Dick’s chest tightens with the urge to help this guy, give him at least one night of a sleep not haunted by guns and shouts.

“Come back,” he says softly. And Bruce gathers himself from the heap of trash, brushes off the worst of it from Dick’s old sweatpants, and follows.

……………………………………

Dick doesn’t even bother offering to take Bruce to a hospital, even though he has a suspicion the guy might have a cracked rib or two. He hands Bruce a tube of cream that he uses on his own bruises, and Bruce accepts it, his mouth shut and his eyes thankful. 

He accepts pyjamas too, reluctantly, and a pillow and a blanket on Dick’s sofa. He’s still there in the morning, and Dick explains that he has a job and that he needs to go, but Bruce is welcome to stay.

When he comes back from work in the evening, the apartment is quiet, and Dick looks everywhere: just as he’s convinced that Bruce is gone, the man climbs in through the kitchen window, and one look at his windswept hair tells Dick that he’s been hiding out on the emergency staircase all this time. Eleven hours in the wind, not particularly warm in the late September; and the guy hasn’t bothered (or dared) to take one of Dick’s jackets or sweaters.

Dick wonders how much of it is unwillingness to go through a stranger’s wardrobe, and how much is Bruce not trusting Dick to not have trackers somewhere in his clothes.

“Tea?” he asks, and Bruce nods, and that’s that for the day, before Dick leaves on night patrol again.

“You don’t have to go. If I wanted to rat you out, I would’ve done it already,” he says, his back to Bruce, when he leaves, a plain shirt and jeans over his Nightwing costume. 

Bruce doesn’t say anything. But when Dick returns six hours later, Bruce is asleep on the sofa. His breathing changes when Dick enters, and Dick is sure the man is awake, but for some reason, he doesn’t as much as move. Dick decides to take that as a show of trust, tentative and guarded, and says ‘good night’ on his way to his bedroom.

………………………………………….

Dick is not entirely sure… no, that isn’t it. Dick has no fucking idea what possessed him that evening, two weeks since he first saw Bruce. The man keeps talking about how he should leave, and Dick doesn’t know whether it’s for Bruce’s own safety or Dick’s, but he always gets this strange, mixed-up look in his eyes when he says it, a cross between regret and heavy reassurance in the accuracy of his words. And all Dick wants is to make him feel safe for once, like he doesn’t have to run.

His mouth is on Bruce’s before he can really think about it and stop himself, and what the hell, the hand on Dick’s hip is more than a hint that Bruce isn’t so adverse to the idea himself. He sucks on Dick’s lip and groans as Dick touches his neck, his shoulder, his chest. But when Dick throws a leg over Bruce’s thighs and moves to straddle the man, Bruce pushes him away and bolts for the bathroom.

They don’t talk about it when Bruce emerges, and Dick shrugs before he goes to sleep:

“It’s okay. I won’t do anything you don’t want to do. I mean, there doesn’t have to be anything like that. You can stay here.”

“I can’t,” is all Bruce says, and Dick wonders what exactly it is that Bruce can’t. 

In the morning, he’s prepared for an empty couch and an empty apartment, for the neat clean-up of Bruce’s first disappearing act. He’s not prepared for the wrench of regret in his gut; he’s even less prepared for the bacon and eggs on the table when he walks into the kitchen, and for the apologetic look Bruce throws him as he holds a cup of coffee to him.

Dick takes what he can get and tries not to think about it at work.

……………………………………………

When Bruce finally disappears, it comes as a punch in the stomach. Dick has become used to living with someone again: too easily, maybe. There’s no note, no… no nothing that could be identified as ever being connected to Bruce Banner.

Dick does his best to forget about the guy: he’s been either caught by whoever it was that chased him, or decided it was time to move on.

Seventeen days later, a postcard from India arrives. It’s empty except for Dick’s address in an unfamiliar, messy scrawl: Dick would bet it’s not Bruce’s handwriting, but he smiles anyway and pins the pretty photo of a sunrise over a river to his fridge.

He spends two minutes every morning staring at the postcard while sipping his coffee, and tries not to miss someone’s quiet, consistent presence on his couch.

…………………………………………

The alien invasion is pretty bad. The whole world seems to be going straight to hell, and Dick spends a lot of time afterwards cleaning up Bludhaven and ignoring the flashy news of the Avengers with a snort. They’re not the first superhero team ever, but they have Tony Stark, the guy who would be willing to let cameras into his bathroom just to keep himself in the center of public interest, so it’s a given that the Avengers get the publicity the Justice League tries to avoid as much as possible. None of them are of personal interest to Dick: until he catches a glimpse of footage in the news at the police station, and he can’t believe his eyes.  
He can’t believe any of his senses when, the next morning, Bruce is standing in his doorway, a sheepish smile and a Starbucks tray in his hands.

“India’s been good to you,” Dick smirks, and Bruce offers the coffee as spoils of war. Dick decides that coffee doesn’t have anything to do with all the unspoken shit between them and he lets the man (and his Starbucks delivery) in, closing the door and staring at Bruce.

He’s different from the man Dick used to know, or thought he knew. He’s cleanly shaved, his hair curling softly around his face, which isn’t as gaunt and sallow as it used to be when he was living on the streets. His eyes are a little less haunted, but there’s that same tentative smile and that hint of wariness in his look, and Dick sits down at the kitchen table and shrugs.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, because there’s really no subtle way of putting it, and Bruce sighs, leaning against the countertop and running a hand over his face.

“Honestly… I have no idea. It’s just… I thought…”

He seems to be doing a fantastic job at discouraging himself, because he shakes his head and lets his hand drop as he pulls away from the counter:

“Just… forget it. I have to go.”

Dick stands up before he knows he’s moving, his hand on Bruce’s shoulder:

“I saw you on TV.”

“It’s pretty hard to miss, isn’t it,” Bruce’s mouth curls into a wry smirk, and Dick’s gut curls in a wrenching desire to kiss it off Bruce’s lips. Fuck. So much for forgetting. 

And he knows it’s probably just Bruce’s mysterious disappearances and unexplained actions that made Dick talk himself into this, more than any actual relationship that was between them – it’s fairly impossible to develop a relationship with someone who talks so little, who’s only been at Dick’s place for a few days, weeks maybe. It’s not much to build anything real on… 

…but it doesn’t make the desire to keep Bruce here any weaker.

“What’re you doing here?” Dick repeats, softer, quieter. Bruce looks at him, properly, and doesn’t pull away from the hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t have to run anymore.”

Dick nods, sensing there’s more to this. Bruce winces, looks away. His eyes catch on the postcard pinned to the fridge and soften. 

“The other guy… the Hulk. We have a deal. He helps the Avengers… and I get one free day a month.”

Dick feels himself take a sharp breath.

“That kinda sucks.”

“Better one day in thirty being free, than every day running from someone,” Bruce says simply, and looks up, meets Dick’s eyes, and there’s a question in them that he doesn’t dare ask aloud. He can’t – it’s asking too much, too soon, too presumptuous in even thinking about asking…

…but Dick nods, smiles and shrugs:

“I don’t get much free time myself, anyway.”


End file.
